The Wanna Wanna in a candid moment, the madcap dance.

Preface: Yes LM, that's the (in)famous "Walt the Salt" (A/K/A "Walter's bris) on the dancefloor with the camera.....

CB was here this weekend, down from Austin and I like to try and at least get a little sail time in while he’s here, in order to sort of assuage two sailing addictions at the same time.

I had planned on moving ‘Div back to her winter hideout over in PI on Saturday anyway, getting in a sail of some sort, but as everybody knows, things don’t often go as planned and we were deluged with a drownpour of rain all day, no wind, and in general sort of nasty conditions, so I put it off until Sunday opting instead to try and take care of some outstanding items.

Saturday night we attended a party at Island Tmes shoreside residence celebrating the anniversary of Janice’s birthday. We sat under the second floor deck sipping beer and watching the light mist fall down, illuminated by the sick yellow glow of halogen pier lights, shining on the inky black water. At one point a diesel sport trawler slunk by up the channel, and the exhaust smell mixed with the mist, wafted up onto the dock, evoking a memory so Kodiak (except for the fact that the temperature needed to be about 50 degrees cooler) that when I closed my eyes, I was momentarily transported back to a different time, and a different place.

Late in the evening after the rest of the guests had left, Jim poured a couple of flagons of ancient Guatemalan rhum. Like any self respecting privateer,  he stashes some for ships supply, saving some to bring back up here whenever he has to do his sentence. He buys it by the case (which comes in a cardboard box), says it’s easier to transport that way, reasoning that you don’t jeopardize individual bottles which could squirt out of a blown out, wet paper sack much like a banana squirting out of it’s skin when trodden on. Such a catastrophe could risk bruising, or God forbid, breaking a bottle of this rare aqua vitae.

Fueled by the rich, full bodied 23 year old nectar-of-the-gods, we lost ourselves in escape plans and more stories of wandering the reefs and islands of Guatemala, Belize and Honduras, further inflaming my already unquenchable fire to do likewise. Jim is returning to Rio Dulce in several weeks to his beloved Island Time. Janice will follow shortly thereafter. We will miss them while they are gone, and of course I will be envious.

Sunday rolls around, and again……no wind, just more light rain and mist. We eat a leisurely brunch of chilequiles at Costa del Mar and head over to ‘Div. The flags and the palm trees stand in taciturn silence, dangling from flagpole, no breath of breeze to even rustle the fronds, and a whisper can be heard for a block.  There is no sense in hanking on a headsail or anything else, I just check the oil, turn on the seacock, switch the batteries to “on” and crank up the iron genoa.

The light rain has ceased for the moment and so cleaning the dock lines and stowing them aboard, we slide away from the Sea Ranch on a bay of glass for the final time this year.

Summer is over.

The trip across is overcast and oppressively hot, an occasional drizzle splattering the coachroof and deck, the only breeze- that generated by Olivias’ forward momentum. CB dozes on the foredeck, and the crew of the Olivia listens to the new Sirius radio, dozing in the cockpit as well, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Mostly I think about how low the tide is and whether or not we were going to get stuck at the treacherous sandbar at the mouth of the entrance channel.

We don’t get stuck. I gun the throttle just prior to the bad spot- no guts no glory, and dragging the keels through the sand momentarily  transit the bar, much to our collective relief, chugging into the fingers. Past Anchor Marina, past Dock Boys lemon yellow See-Lyin’ and on into ‘Div’s temporary home on the next finger over, we tie up and shut down without further adieu.

Sunday night, the Bongo Dogs are at Wanna Wanna for one of the final performances of the year. A light rain is again falling, and even though I am suffering with a case of what my daughter Savannah calls Tabaculosis (a bad chest cold), we decide to go anyhow. It is a requisite.

A lopsided moon hangs midway on the horizon out over the open Gulf of Mexico, playing hide and seek with clouds promising more rain and there is definitely a change in the air. I think everybody is a little keyed up with this last hurricane scare (Dean- the storm that wasn’t), and so a bit of lunacy prevails. There is a madcap dance accompanying the final vestiges of summer, perhaps tinged with just an indication of the slightest melancholy.

I find myself wondering where do the seasons go? Where does the wind go? Where does the rum go?